Inside was a pair of slippers. Cotton, soft-soled, brand new.
No note on the bag. Nothing at all.
I picked up my phone and sent Benedict a message.
"Mr. Fox, slippers received. Thank you."
Three minutes later, a reply: "Mm. Floor's cold."
I stared at those two words, trying to picture his expression as he typed them.
Completely blank? Or the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth?
I realized I couldn't imagine it. But the strange thing was, I wanted to know.
I looked down at my bare feet, then at the soft-soled slippers.
My feet were starting to warm up. And my heart, I think, had gotten a little warmer too.
Cindy's family was just as kind as she had been.
That night, I lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.
My mind was a tangle of low-grade unease and that sticky note. Nothing else could get in.
I climbed out of bed and padded back to the kitchen just to look at it, to confirm it was still there.
Once I saw it, I stood there confused by my own behavior. What exactly was I trying to confirm?
My phone screen lit up. Another message from Benedict Fox.
"Can't sleep?"
How did he know?
I didn't even think before typing back: "How'd you know?"
The screen glowed again. "Surveillance cameras."